


Hand-Job

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-26
Updated: 2005-06-26
Packaged: 2018-12-27 06:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12075294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Brian has an idea.





	Hand-Job

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

I pull the sliding door shut behind me and stand in the twilight of the loft. Justin is already in bed, having worked an early shift at the diner, and I know he's asleep until morning. His sleep state operates somewhere slightly above unconscious. How the door banging open and shut doesn't wake him amazes me.

I'm planning to take a shower to wash away my day of non-stop pressure, the idiotic clients, and my own bellowing behaviour. I want to let the quiet in the loft sink inside, so that when I slide in beside Justin I can appreciate how peaceful and good it is to have him here.

As I cross the bed-room floor, I notice that he's wrapped up in the dark blue duvet. Head beneath the covers. Just one disembodied hand extended, prone on the bed. Pale skin against dark sheets. God, it takes nothing to make me hard. A vague thought enters my head that his disembodied hand looks a little like Thing from the Addams Family. Which conjures up visions of Lurch. Ok, that worked like cold water. I head off to the shower but I can't get his hand off my mind. I stroke myself to maintain a hard-on as a plan forms. 

I approach the bed, still damp from the shower. But it's a quickly evaporating damp because the heat in my body rises as I approach him. It always does. 

He hasn't moved. I wonder how he breathes under there. He loves the feeling of burrowing, of creating little caves to crawl into and hibernate. I'm the opposite. I prefer to be barely covered, wrapped around Justin's body as he lies buried deep in his blankets. He keeps me warm. And when I came home I had meant to do just that; lie along his sleeping form, use his measured breathing to put me to sleep. So, really, it's his fault that's not what's going to happen. His hand is extended to my side of the bed. And if he isn't going to have the courtesy to wake up when I come home, I can't be responsible as to what happens to available body parts that he just leaves laying around.

His hands are small and strong. Often coloured by whatever medium he's using. Lately it's been charcoal. He has an indent along his middle finger where he holds his pencil too tight. His fingers are shorter than mine. They don't have the reach that mine do. But he can produce beautiful art work, wonderful food and can torture my body like nobody else. I never paid attention to hands until we thought he might lose the use of his. Then I paid a lot of attention. I had never walked holding anyone's hand until I held his on Liberty Avenue, as we walked through the crowds after the bashing. I held on tight then. In a way, I haven't let go since. 

I'm kneeling beside him now, sitting back on my heels. Watching the duvet for any sign that he knows that I'm here. I'm barely aware that I'm reaching for the lube because my body's already moving to where my mind hasn't quite gone. For a moment I consider squirting it into his up-turned hand. I re-consider, squeeze it into my own and run it along my hardening shaft. A little too thickly. I really want to be able to slide. 

I prop my body in a modified push-up and extend my cock over his hand. I hold myself there, thinking the awkwardness of the position and the weirdness of the situation should cause me to re-assess. Knowing that he will strut and preen for weeks over what is about to happen. But I can't quite care enough to stop myself. Smug looks pretty cute on Justin.

I lower my dick towards his slightly cupped palm and bump the hollow a few times to get the feel. I stroke it along his fingers. He flicks them a bit and I know that he's waking up; his involuntary little spasms cause the tips of his fingers to tickle my shaft. My nipples tighten and my breath hitches. I kind of want to see what he will do.

He never disappoints. He allows me to push again along his fingers and upwards across his palm. When he crooks the tips of his fingers slightly to brush across my balls, little shivers crawl up my belly. His hand's wet now from the lube and I can slip and slide, over and over, stroking his hand until I'm achingly hard. But there isn't enough friction to bring me off. 

Sensing that I need more, he shifts his hand slightly and curls his fingers closed along my length so that I can fuck the channel he creates. The additional pressure causes me to moan and speed up. He loosens one finger at the top of his closed fist and starts to work the head. Flicking the slit and tickling the underside of my glans. 

I'm open-mouth panting now. I threw my dignity out the window when I initiated this hand-job. 

He works my whole cock, and because he's a smart little fucker, he drops his pinky so that on the down thrust he can check the tension of my balls. Rolling them when he pumps down and flicking the head with his index finger when he pushes up. I ignore the strain in my arms and pick up the pace. I start to pump with purpose and he responds with the same intensity. All communicated through the clutch of his hand, the feathering of his fingers and his perfect timing. My balls start to draw up and the moans pouring from me are guttural, both from the effort this is taking and the how fucking hot my swollen dick looks in his hand.

I should never under-estimate Justin, he suddenly rolls toward me, pushing, so that I am dropped to the bed and completely covered by his tight little body and the duvet. My dick still wrapped firmly in his hand. I'm now in his cave, the light from outside filtering in, and just the sounds of my stuttered breathing as I start to rut again. He's whispering to me, telling me the things that make me lose it, and I cum hot and desperate into his clenched fist. 

I can already feel his face drawing up into a smile as he lies along my back. "It's true," he says "You really would fuck a cadaver." I feign offence. 

"Only if he was exceptionally hot. Make that hot and still warm." 

He laughs and smears my cum across my stomach as I roll onto my back, managing to keep both of us in his deep blue cave. He smiles at me, and puts my hand on his hard dick. I nudge my spent cock along his thigh, and he presses his lips to my ear:

"Let me show you how I can raise the dead."

One of these days I have to tell this kid I love him.


End file.
